


Mayerling Walzer

by SolitaryViolence



Series: Wenn du mich brauchst, komm ich zu dir [5]
Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Historical RPF
Genre: Abuse of Alliteration, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, M/M, Mayerling Incident, Mental Anguish, Purple Prose, Songfic, Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships, Waltzing, does it count as a songfic if it's pure instrumental?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryViolence/pseuds/SolitaryViolence
Summary: The Crown Prince always has been...alamort. This danse macabre is one drawn-out and disorderly, yet with each shambling step, it nears its sepulchral summit.
Relationships: Rudolf von Österreich-Ungarn | Rudolf Crown Prince of Austria/Der Tod | Death (Elisabeth), Rudolf von Österreich-Ungarn/Marie Alexandrine von Vetsera
Series: Wenn du mich brauchst, komm ich zu dir [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636456
Kudos: 2





	Mayerling Walzer

**Author's Note:**

> It's been eighty-four years...
> 
> A sorry isn't enough. Basically, I've been focusing almost entirely on my longfic. I also had a bit of a mental breakdown last month. Those are my only excuses.
> 
> Now, get out your dictionaries! I made this needlessly purple, and for what reason I haven't the faintest.

The Crown Prince always has been... _alamort_. Perhaps now more than ever.

Without warning, his whimsical waltz warps into a wildering whirl of whispering wraiths waving that worshipped weapon before his weary eyes as if to wheedle him from wavering. Thronged with temulentive truculence, he tries to take it from their taunting grasp, yet each time his fingertips so much as trace its surface, they wrest it back with twice as much thew, notwithstanding their waiflike traits. Despairingly, his eyes dart, seeking his shadow, but Death seems to have disappeared.

Who would’ve thought a hermetic hunting lodge in an atrophied Austrian village would embosom such an elegiacal scene? The throne’s heir despondently dances with dissolution, accompanied only by the crimson-clad, cast-off cadaver of his jejune Juliet and the metaphysical manifestations of his destruction dight in disregard and disacquaintance.

This danse macabre is one drawn-out and disorderly, yet with each shambling step, it nears its sepulchral summit. A spectacle unto the ages unfurls without so much as a single witness. But perhaps that’s better, if only for the protection of progeny and posterity.

Poor Erzsi. A letter isn’t nearly enough to heal the injuries this is to inflict.

Relentlessly, the rakshasas of rebirth revolve around the room, sending Rudolf reeling as he reaches for redemption, coming so close yet so far. Outside, the sharp air storms stronger and shrieks through the surrounding trees, keening for the moribund prince.

How long this lather of lightsome angels and lilting gales lasts, he knows not, but at last, he finds himself accolled in the arms of a most familiar ally. With good grace, he gazes up to greet his friend.  
“ _It’s time_ ,” Death says soundlessly, guiding the gun towards Rudolf’s temple. “ _Let me have you_ ,” his every element screams, every bit as ear-piercingly as the winds without.  
With a gauche gulp, the prince takes the pistol into his aspen hand, holding it to his haggard, hindered head. His free arm finds its way to Death’s back, which, in its final impetus of intimacy, it cradles as caringly as one would a newborn. With a hybridisation of horror and hunger highlighting his halituous visage, Death joins their foreheads, heartily mouthing:  
“ _You’re mine_.”  
Expelling a steady sigh, Rudolf shuts his eyes and steels himself for silence.

_I’m yours_.

With each evanescent second, he senses his companion sneaking nearer, and when their lips lock, at such long last, he pulls the trigger.

It all happens so hastily. One moment, Death marks an unmelodious, strident shot, then the next, a bloodsoaked, bursten body lies limp his hold.

In the coup de grâce’s corollaries, the kiss lingers. For how long, he knows not. But, in the fullness time, he falls back, shedding a single tear as he lets those ravaged remains drop to the bed.

_Sic itur ad astra_.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, but it's not over yet! See y'all in the next (and final) installment, coming sometime this century!


End file.
